


Shire Dreams

by Notabluemaia



Series: Pre-Quest Shire Tales ~ Romance, Adventure & Traditions [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams vs. Reality, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Quest, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Tender loving care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:32:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notabluemaia/pseuds/Notabluemaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a cold spring night, Frodo suffered a grievous harm. He is taken to No. 3 Bagshot Row, laid in Sam’s bed, and carefully tended – but an unseen force would do anything to prevent great truth from being known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take Care Like He Was Our Own

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Shire Dreams stands alone, but follows events in _Grafting Roses_ (wip), precedes those in _Mushrooms and Man Dragons_ , and is part of a gradually unfolding tale insistent in the author’s imagination.

  
Frodo had fallen into sleep: a sweet, healing sleep. Sam wavered on his feet, exhausted, relieved, and, in truth, overwhelmed. He tucked the sodden envelope, pried and relinquished from Frodo’s hand, into his vest pocket – _I promised him I’d keep it safe_ \- and let himself sink back onto the trestle bench, never once letting loose of the bloody hand he clasped. He looked over his Master’s body, spilled incongruously upon their kitchen table, and met Marigold’s eyes; tears glistened and streaked her cheeks. Ham stepped closer and laid his hands heavily on Sam’s shoulders, rubbing knotted muscles. Sam leaned into his brother’s strength and closed his eyes for what seemed like the first time since he had faced the unbearable.  
  
“You were right, son.” Fatigue had roughened his Gaffer’s voice. Sam jerked to attention, his hands tightening reflexively around Frodo’s, and looked to his father, standing silhouetted against flames leaping in the fireplace.  
  
“If you hadn’t seen it— I don’t have to tell you what we thought…” The Gaffer rubbed one gnarled hand over his jaw and cleared his throat. “But there’s more needs doing, and not just for the chill he’s taken.” He pulled aside the piled blankets and peered closely at Frodo’s bare chest. In the flickering firelight it was difficult to distinguish injury from mud, but redness rose already from deep bruises that had not yet turned black. He pressed knowing fingers along the ribcage, and Sam listened anxiously to every word. “There don’t seem to be anything broke… but it ain’t all dirt. It’ll lay him up a good while.” He parted the matted hair and probed the knot beneath the damp curls. “This ain't too bad. We can let him sleep, I think.”  
  
Frowning, he gestured to Sam. “Here, son, give me his hand.” Sam relinquished Frodo’s still oozing hand for his father’s inspection. “That’ll need Mari’s best stitches, and a good binding, too.” He gave Sam a hard look across the table, and spoke frankly, his voice gruff. “You had sharp eyes, to notice only a few drops tellin’ the life in him. But I’d a known you’d be the one to see it, if anyone could.”  
  
Those last words penetrated Sam’s exhaustion as his father returned Frodo’s hand to him. _Does he know? How could he? All of us love him, one way or another, but…_ Reeling between relief and a still grim reality, confused by what his father might or might not know of what he hardly understood himself, Sam could not find words to speak.  
  
“But it ain’t over, yet. The chill is bad enough, never mind the rest. Ham, fill the tub – not too hot, mind you! Mari, there’s a good lass—” Marigold already was replacing the warming bricks, wrapping and tucking fresh ones along Mr. Frodo’s sides. “Clean his cuts, best you can. What he’s been through, I don’t doubt he’ll sleep through it, if you’re careful. Dose him with the willow bark – he’ll likely need the poppy, too – and as much honeyed tea as he’ll take. Poultices and such can wait till morning… It’s surely too bad…” He shook his head, swiped his hand across his face, then laid it upon Frodo’s shoulder. He bent low to speak, his voice gruff, “Sir, ain’t nothing going to harm you any more, not here. Just rest easy, sir. We’ll take care of you like you was our own, long as you need.”  
  
The Gaffer straightened, and with a stern look and an admonition to make haste, he hurried outside to tell the worried neighbours milling before the smial the good news: the Master of Bag End yet lived.  
  
*****

 

Author's Story LiveJournal:

  
         [Chapter 1: Take Care Like He Was Our Own](http://notabluemaiatoo.livejournal.com/14876.html)  
         [Chapter 2: Something That Needs Doing](http://notabluemaiatoo.livejournal.com/14643.html)  
         [Chapter 3: What Needs Doing](http://notabluemaiatoo.livejournal.com/14513.html)  
         [Chapter 4: The Water's Flow](http://notabluemaiatoo.livejournal.com/14224.html)  
         [Chapter 5: The Best of Care](http://notabluemaiatoo.livejournal.com/13970.html)  
         [Chapter 6: What Kind of Luck](http://notabluemaiatoo.livejournal.com/13816.html)  
         [Chapter 7: Frodo Awakens](http://notabluemaiatoo.livejournal.com/13450.html)  
         [Chapter 8: A Most Reasonable Suggestion](http://notabluemaiatoo.livejournal.com/13291.html)  
         [Chapter 9: An Argument Suppressed](http://notabluemaiatoo.livejournal.com/12862.html#cutid1)  
         [Chapter 10: Interlude ~ Sam's Dream](http://notabluemaiatoo.livejournal.com/12771.html#cutid1)  
         [Chapter 11: Pain and Poppy](http://notabluemaiatoo.livejournal.com/12430.html#cutid1)  
         [Chapter 12: The Wrong Side of a Dream](http://notabluemaiatoo.livejournal.com/12237.html#cutid1)  
         [Chapter 13: The Morning After](http://notabluemaiatoo.livejournal.com/11853.html#cutid1)  
  



	2. Something That Needs Doing

  
  
Marigold was the first to pull herself together. She rubbed the tears from her eyes and blotted her face with her apron, then turned to the fireplace and took tongs to pour boiling water into a basin set by Frodo’s shoulder. She wrung out the washing cloth and daubed at the scratches on his cheek. It was strange to see such rough and tumble hurts on their quiet Master, but this whole night was strange. It was hard to know how best to help him. But her home remedies couldn’t hurt, and she’d leave healing whatever else ailed him to whatever had brought him back. Seemed that had more to do with Sam than anything else – except maybe the fact that Mr. Frodo was such a strong one. And any fool who hadn’t known that before, knew it now, after what he’d done tonight.   
  
She glanced up to Sam, sitting slumped, eyes closed, and forehead pressed to Mr. Frodo’s hurt hand. Stunned, that’s what he looked. Now there was a hobbit that needed something practical to do to pull himself together. What next? Ham already had hauled the big tub from its corner and set another kettle to heat water; he was filling a bucket from the pump at the sideboard. But there _was_ something else that needed doing, and it weren’t proper for her to do it unless she had to, and with Sam right here, she didn’t.  
  
“Sam?” He hadn’t moved an inch. She reached across Mr. Frodo to shake his shoulder, and impatience flared, fuelled by fear. “Sam! You need to take these wet clothes off him right away.”  
  
He looked up. Grief lines creased his eyes; he was about done in. She remembered the night before, and now this, and her heart gentled for her big brother. Yes, it must be even worse for him, close as he worked for Mr. Frodo, fond as he was… She spoke more gently, repeating what she realised he’d scarcely heard before.   
  
“I’m finished here, Sam. Ham’s making the tub ready. It’s time to strip him, unless you plan to put him in, clothes and all – but then you’d have to do it after, sopping wet.”  
  
 _Pull yourself together! Mr. Frodo doesn’t need you swooning over a near miss, no matter how close it were._  
  
Sam shook off his stupor. Gently he laid Frodo’s hand at his side - he could have been content never to let it go, to throw his arms around him, hold him, whisper his name – and shoved himself to stand.   
  
“I’ll make tea, make sure the room’s ready for him. I gave him yours, Sam. It’s warmest, and I knew you’d never mind.” Marigold rummaged in the basket of medicinal supplies, and set out a small bottle and a corked brown vial. “Here’s the willow, and poppy cordial, too – Dad’s strongest, what he takes for his rheumatism – for when he wakes.”  
  
“Leave it to me, Mari. Just set it there.”   
  
Marigold dropped her cloth to splash in the dark pink water swirling in the basin; she turned to go, but could not keep from looking back. Sam was staring at the cleaned abrasions.   
  
“Sam?” They exchanged a worried look across Frodo’s body.   
  
Sam shook his head. “You did a good job, but they almost look worse now.”  
  
“Aye, it’s bad, ain’t it? But he’ll be fine. Ain’t nothing here can hurt him any more.” Marigold spoke with youthful confidence that came from inability to accept any other possibility. “I’ll stitch his hand, soon as he’s tucked in bed. Oh, Sam, I laid out a nightshirt of yours that might fit him, one you outgrew afore it was hardly worn, and no little brothers to use it, though anything, even too big, would be a bit of warmth for him…” She heard herself babbling but could not seem to stop. “I’ll just step away, now, and give the Master some privacy…”   
  
Sam would do what needed doing. He always did. He had to, now. 


	3. What Must Be Done

  
  
Marigold left, muttering something about nightshirts, as Sam pulled aside the wool blankets. He reached to Frodo’s waist to undo his braces – and stopped.   
  
It weren’t right to touch him like he weren’t here. He _was_ , and after all they’d been through, plain old common courtesy would be a comfort, and he could surely use some of that. If he spoke politely, like he usually did, maybe things would return to their right order the sooner? “Mr. Frodo, sir, begging your pardon, I have to do this. Tub’s almost ready, and that’s our best soap I smell. Basil and thyme, sir.”   
  
_Made especially for Bag End, for you, and a few left over, come to unexpected good use._  
  
“Shouldn’t take long, sir, and then you can rest without us bothering you. Begging your pardon, I’ll take these…” Sam unfastened the few carved buttons clinging still, after The Water, and his family’s desperate efforts, had ripped aside waistcoat and woven shirt. Carefully, he withdrew one arm from the sodden, stained mess. He rolled Frodo onto his side and manoeuvred the icy fabrics off the other, running his own warm hand over clammy flesh.   
  
_Hurry, hurry, he needs warm water and a warmer bed as soon as possible. Don’t think about what did this to him…  
  
Is it worse to imagine what caused every hurt, or to know? I would know, if only…_  
  
Sam brushed impatiently at the welling tears, and his voice was a harsh whisper.   
  
“Mr. Frodo, I am so sorry I weren’t there for you.”   
  
_Don’t know what I’d have done – don’t even know for sure what happened. But you needed me. And I should’ve been there._  
  
“Sam – this kettle’ll fill it; how’s it coming there?” Water splashed behind him, and Ham’s voice called him back to his task.  
  
“Almost finished.” He dropped the soggy jumble onto the bench behind him, and reached to unbutton Frodo’s trousers. But urgent though the need for stripping him was, he hesitated.   
  
_He wouldn’t mind, Sam. He trusts you._  
  
Aye, that he did, and reserved and private though he was, Mr. Frodo weren’t that different from most hobbits – he weren’t hindered by false modesty, especially in front of close friends. Even before Sam knew he was counted as a friend, he had seen his Master unclothed a fair sight – _a fair sight indeed_ – during his years in service at Bag End, helping after bathing, removing clothes soaked by an unexpected downpour on one of his frequent wanderings. And later, he’d been included companionably on overnight hiking adventures, or swimming outings, if just to sit on the bank in the sunshine watching the water-loving cousins splash, or sometimes, Frodo, sleek and graceful by himself.  
  
 _Always thought swimming weren’t natural and led to trouble – it’s why he thought he could manage and tried such a blasted fool thing. But he’d’ve drowned for sure without it. It’s all such a muddle…_  
  
And he had helped at the rare sickbed when Mr. Frodo had been too weak to insist that he ‘could manage quite well on his own’, changing his sweat soaked sheets and nightshirts, though Mr. Frodo’d never allowed any help more personal, mostly because he wouldn't have wanted to 'impose' a bit more than he had to.  
  
 _He does trust me, and he always can. But he don’t know all of it, and if he did…_  
  
Uninvited memories blazed through Sam’s mind, burning through emotions already razed raw by terror and blessed relief – and his hands trembled as he undid buttons, folded fabrics aside. He bit his lip; bit back the rush of tenderness that threatened to turn compassion into a caress.   
  
_Just get on with what needs doing._   
  
Sam took a deep breath and lifted Frodo’s hips with one hand as with the other, he pulled wool and linens from beneath him, down and off past mud-encrusted feet. How often had he sat on the hearthrug as Frodo read aloud, his feet tangling absently together, toes digging into the plush nap, their movements as expressive as his hands upon the page… how often had he wished to lay his hand upon one – as now he did, his fingers catching in dried tangles. Slowly he raised his eyes. His Mr. Frodo lay naked before him, his every part exposed, from scraped shins to bruised knees to delicate flesh lying pale over darkness… Sam groaned and his heart pounded a fierce rhythm.  
  
But before he could think more or look twice, Ham was there. “He’s not heavy, but it’ll take both of us to put him in the water without hurting him. Here, I have him—” Ham slid one arm beneath Frodo’s shoulders, “—you take his legs.”   
  
It was very strange to be handling Mr. Frodo like this; to feel lean muscle, where he’d expected softness; to feel his fingers tangle through the muddy fur on his feet, brush over the lighter hair on the smooth skin of his thighs. Sam realised belatedly that Ham had said something; he secured his grip and hoisted. It was equally surprising to find that one who weighed in so heavy with sheer personality and will, was actually so slight in the flesh. Well, it just showed how much difference being well-spoken made.   
  
Together they carried their Master and folded him carefully into the small bathing tub; he moaned, the first sound he’d made since he’d fallen heavily into sleep, and his head rolled towards Sam, but he did not wake. 


	4. The Water's Flow

  
  
“You try.” Ham handed a mug of honeyed tea to Sam, who wondered briefly how he had missed its preparation.   
  
“Mr. Frodo, sir, you should drink this.” Sam held the mug to his lips, murmuring encouragement, stroking his throat. His patient efforts succeeded, and some of the sweet warmth was swallowed, though it seemed more reflex than conscious response. _Could we wake him? How far from us has he gone?_ He wiped what had spilled from lips and chin, ran the cloth over his neck.   
  
“I’ll hold him while you wash his hair?” Ham started to lean him forward, towards his knees, as they’d sit to wash themselves. But Sam shook his head; his chest was too bruised for any pressure, and the thought of rinse water, _any_ water, free flowing over Frodo’s face gave Sam a sick feeling. Ham braced his arm beneath his Master’s neck, holding his head tipped back; the longest strands floated dark upon the surface.  
  
“Best hurry, Sam. I surely don’t want to be the one trying to move him around if he starts to wake.”  
  
“No, Mr. Frodo wouldn’t take kindly to that, and if he felt better, he’d tell you.” Sam sighed as he felt swelling beneath the soap lather; but when the bloodied hair was untangled, the actual cut was small. He poured clear water, and without looking up, he said, tightly, “It’s not my place to say it – but he did more’n his part.”   
  
“He did go right for it, didn’t he? Took some pluck.” Ham shook his head. “But, Sam, it would’ve been worse heartache if he hadn’t.”  
  
“I know. I heard.” Sam frowned and swirled a washing cloth over the mud streaks on Frodo’s shoulders and chest. “So tell me. How in blazes did this happen?”  
  
Ham sighed. “Wrong place, wrong time. Too much, all at once. The lad was only playing – then his boat hung up midstream . The Water did the rest…”  
  
 _Was he afraid? Did he know what was coming?_  
  
Sam bowed his head, letting Ham’s words flow over him as he laved warm water over Frodo’s exposed shoulders and knees. The rivulets sparkled in the firelight, and soap bubbles slid slowly down shining skin, to drift a veil over darkening bruises and pale belly… and below.  
  
“I can’t bear to think on it.”   
  
“I know. But the lad didn’t have a chance, ‘cept for what Mr. Frodo gave him. Would have drowned for sure–”  
  
“ _He_ almost did, Ham!” Sam dropped the washing cloth and gripped the sides of the tub, his knuckles white.  
  
“Aye, and for a time, we thought sure he had. You weren’t there, Sam. It were bad, everyone searching, and no one believing it would come to a good end…” Ham looked up to meet Sam’s eyes, and his face twisted in a grimace of sympathy. “But, Sam, there weren’t no one else for it. You know our Mr. Frodo, better’n anyone. He _couldn’t_ have just stood by.”  
  
“I know.” Sam said, bitterly. “I know.” He lifted Frodo’s bandaged hand from the water. The binding he had wrapped just that morning had failed to protect the wound from whatever force had ripped it open. Had it been too loose? Should he have padded it more? Had it helped at all? Scissors from Mari’s little basket of supplies made short work of it; Sam submerged it again and soaped away the dissolving blood. He patted it dry, then poured cleansing witch-hazel infusion over the wound. Frodo flinched, and pulled away with a sharp intake of breath – but that was better than him being so deep asleep that he couldn’t feel it.  
  
“Did you know, I was the one as found him?” Ham looked across to his brother. Sam swallowed hard, but he didn’t look up. “I could tell he was hurt, chilled to the bone, but he roused to talk, and made sense, woozy as he was. What happened after weren’t _all_ The Water, Sam. It were something else. Maybe you’d know more about that than me, and I think you had something to do with him coming back.”  
  
Sam looked up and met his brother’s eyes. “Maybe. I need to think on it. Thank you. For the telling, but more, for the finding.” Sam reached for the bathing sheets Mari had laid ready and shook them out as he stood. Together they lifted Frodo and Sam covered him, towelling streaming water from his body, blotting the dripping curls.   
  
“I have him – been carrying him off and on all night; a few steps more ain’t goin’ to hurt me.” Ham strode across the kitchen, bearing their Master to Sam’s room.   
  
*****


	5. The Best of Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illustration - Tender Care

  
[](http://photobucket.com)   
_Tender Care_   


  
  
  
_Shire Dreams_ , by [](http://notabluemaia.livejournal.com/profile)[**notabluemaia**](http://notabluemaia.livejournal.com/)  
  
 _5 The Best of Care_  
  
  
  
A single candle burned upon the bedside table, its flame flickering as their arrival disturbed the warm, still air; shadows danced upon the curved walls and overhead. Muslin sheets, bleached and washed to creamy softness, were folded back over the rough wool blanket, and an eiderdown was folded neatly at hand. Sam recognised the treasured heirloom, his own of the beautiful wedding linens his mother had embroidered for each of her children, carefully set back till the time it would cover new love with hope and blessing.   
  
_Mari didn’t realise… But Mother might well have done the same, and set out the very best, if ever he’d been abed in her home._   
  
Sam drew aside the covers and helped Ham lay Frodo down, taking care not to jar him. He tossed aside the damp towels, placed a dry one beneath his wet hair, and pulled the soft eiderdown over him to cover his nakedness, then arranged his limbs in what seemed a more comfortable position. A nightshirt had been left on the nightstand; his old one, that Mari had mentioned.  
  
 _It was just waiting for him, in the chest with the quilt. The blue will be right nice with his eyes, when he wakes… when he wakes…. But how do we put it on without hurting him?_  
  
As if in answer to Sam’s thought, Ham volunteered, “Here, Sam, let your big brother do that, just like I did for you when you was a sleepy little faunt. Keep a cloth on his hand so’s it don’t bleed on anything. Mari would have a fit. If you’ll rest him forward a little…” Between the two of them, the nightshirt went on and was pulled down well past his feet.   
  
“Watch out for that extra there, so’s it don’t trip him. Though he won’t be walking about much for a while, I don’t doubt. Ain’t this yours? I didn’t think you were that much taller’n him.”  
  
“No, I’m not. Daisy decided I’d grow and waited to take it up. But I didn’t, and then it was too small otherwise. Never used it, and just as well now that he needs it.” Sam reached to pull damp strands of hair from beneath the loose neckline. “Actually, he’s a mite taller’n me. But I’m bigger, and a sight bigger round.”   
  
_Bigger, sturdier, stronger, and none of it there when it mattered…_  
  
“That you are. A good sight bigger. All Mari’s good cooking, don’t you think?” Ham smiled.   
  
“Aye.” But Sam was finished with conversation and didn’t look up; his lips set in a grim line and he held Mr. Frodo’s hand like he’d break.  
  
“Well, here he is, and likely to be a while. I guess Mari’ll take care of his hand, and you’ll want to watch over him tonight.”   
  
It wasn’t really a question, and Sam only nodded.  
  
“Well, I’d best go tend to Nell and the cart. See if I can help Dad with the neighbours. This’ll be the talk for weeks, you know.”  
  
“Aye.” More talk than their quiet Master ever would have wanted. Sam glanced up; Ham leaned against the doorframe, frowning as he rolled his shoulders. “Take some rest, Ham – you’ve earned it.”   
  
“Sooner or later. You, too, Sam. Don’t be frettin’ more’n you have to.”   
  
Sam managed to return a wry smile as Ham left, then shifted to lay Frodo back to the pillow, a downy luxury from Marigold’s own bed. He tucked the covers around his feet, and drew them and the eiderdown up to his chin, leaving only the hurt hand out for Mari’s ministrations. A tap on the door signalled her return as she peered around the edge of the door.   
  
“Are you ready for me yet? I saw Ham slip out. Looks like you are. Good, I want to sew that up while it’s still softened from the wash-up.” She came in balancing a tray with a teapot and mugs, her sewing kit, a small basket of cloths and medicines, and the household’s brightest lantern.  
  
Sam pulled the single ladder-back chair next to the bed for her as she set the lantern and her supplies on the nightstand. She rummaged in her kit, sat down, and leaned close to the light to thread a tiny glinting needle with white thread; she didn’t look up until she’d finished.   
  


  
[](http://photobucket.com)  
_Marigold Gamgee_ , detail from _Tender Care_  


  
  
Sam stood by the bed, holding the folded bath sheet to his chest, as though he had forgotten it. His gaze was fixed on Mr. Frodo, and to her eye, he looked like he’d keel over any second. How much sleep could he have had after last night?  
  
“Sam, sit, right there on the bed next to him. You look peaked; are you all right?” Sam nodded as she continued, “I need your help; hold his hand steady, right here in the light…” Marigold bent to her task, chattering to allay her worries.  
  
“This thread’s the finest I have, left over from Daisy’s wedding gown. Good and strong – Sam, I’ll need you to keep blotting so’s I can see. That bleeding just won’t quite stop, will it? I’d have thought it would by now… Hmm, it’s almost like there’s still poison, keeping it from clotting, ain’t it?” She wrinkled her nose and peered closely as though she might see traces of it.  
  
“Maybe.” Sam didn’t know the answer to that, but he had been wondering too, and had made sure to wash the wound extra carefully. He pressed a clean cloth to the tear for a moment, and when he took it away, the bleeding seemed finally to have ceased.  
  
“There, that’s good. Oh, dear, the edges are so ragged! I hope it won’t leave much of a scar…” Marigold’s dexterous little fingers gently nudged the torn skin into alignment. “Ah, there’s some luck! It goes from the pad of his thumb right along his lifeline – most likely won’t show too bad. It’d be a shame to scar his hand, and it bein’ his writin’ hand, too; good thing there’s no muscle torn what would keep him from that…”   
  
Silence ensued for a few minutes as she concentrated on stitches as fine as ever done for any bride or baby’s gown. The candle sputtered, and its tallow popped. Marigold’s breathing was harsh with the intensity of her focus on the palm upturned before her. Sam heard his own breath as well, forced deliberately to slowness by his effort to stay calm. And, soft from the bed, Frodo’s, low, steady, no trace of water sounding in his lungs. But to Sam’s attentive ears, there was a slight hitch with each puncture of the needle, as pain penetrated to wherever he had gone.  
  
“There, that’s done it!” She leaned down to sever the thread with strong white teeth, but thought better of it, and snipped it close with her scissors, instead. She gathered needle, scissors, and thread into her sewing kit, then stood and brushed the snips from her apron. “Just wants a little cleaning and binding, and I’ll leave that to you. Looks like the bleeding’s stopped for good, now it’s tucked together.” Marigold looked to Sam with concern. He’d rested Frodo’s hand upon his thigh, tugged down the too long sleeve, and was turning it up neatly to his wrist. The effort seemed to demand all his attention.  
  
“You’re plain worn out, Sam. I’m going to warm up some of that nice mushroom soup, and I want you to eat. I was sending one of my pies up to Bag End for you, but I think soup’s the thing now…”   
  
Sam looked up at her, and smiled, finally. “Thank you. But, Mari, I couldn’t, not a thing, and you’re tired, too, so don’t bother. Please. I just want to rest here after this is tended. But be sure and tell Ham about that pie you set aside for me. We had a little wager this afternoon— Oh, Mari, that was so long ago!” They exchanged a look, and Marigold set her hand upon Sam’s shoulder.   
  
“Sam, it’s more’n a body should have to bear, what with last night, too. I was so scared. I thought—” She drew a deep breath, and collected herself. “Well, it didn’t happen, and there’s nothing for it now, ‘cept what we’re doing. ‘Course, someone had better stay with him… in case… Seein’ as you’re not likely to set foot from his side more’n a moment, anyway…?”   
  
Sam’s expression was answer enough, and Marigold balanced her basket and gave him a quick hug. “I thought you wouldn’t mind. Sam… I know this is extra hard on you… how special he is. We’ll take good care of him.”   
  
“Aye. The best.” Sam’s voice was fierce, and he held Frodo’s stitched hand as carefully as he would a fragile butterfly, or the terrified mice he’d barely rescued from the rain barrel.   
  
“Well. There’s what you’ll need, in the basket. Dad’s poppy extract, too, for when he wakes.” Marigold picked up the lantern, and with a flurry of rustling skirts, she swept out, closing the door softly behind her.  
  
*****


	6. What Kind of Luck?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illustration

  
[](http://photobucket.com)  
_Frodo and Samwise_ , detail from _Tender Care_  


  
  
_Shire Dreams_ by [](http://notabluemaia.livejournal.com/profile)[**notabluemaia**](http://notabluemaia.livejournal.com/) _6 What Kind of Luck_  
  
  
  
The candlelight seemed dim after the brightness of the lantern. Sam sat quietly, letting his eyes adjust as the air in the room stilled to a silence and the flame stabilised to a steady glow.   
  
The whole Shire had gone a’kilter. This weren’t how it was supposed to be. How’d it happen that his gentle Master, who didn’t _have_ to do anything more dangerous than a strenuous hike, had come to this? Laid low, to lie _here_ , too hurt even to be moved to the comfort of his own bed, and no knowing for how long, either, or what else ailed him, after so much strange already had befallen him?   
  
How, by all that was good, had they come this close to losing him?   
  
_Aye, not having a scar is some luck... But the rest of it?_   
  
He set Frodo’s hand palm upwards upon his lap and swabbed pungent witch-hazel, darkly pleased for the slight flinch that showed his Master felt something of the world beyond his slumber, then smeared ointment over the tiny stitches puckering the ragged tear. He folded the softest of the cut cotton strips into a thick pad and laid it across his palm, wrapping the length around his hand from wrist to fingers, crisscrossing several times before tucking under the end. A length of heavier fabric, tied with a neat bow, secured the protective pad.   
  
_May be too much, but I wish I’d put on that and more, this morning._   
  
Sam lifted the covers and laid Frodo’s hand upon his belly, and looked to his face; he smoothed ointment over the dark scratches marring his cheek, and onto the cut buried beneath matted curls. His shining hair… would he have to cut out those snarls? He looked thoughtfully at the little pot: oil, calendula, and soothing lavender - not a thing that could hurt… He scooped another dollop, rubbed his hands together, and sleeked it onto the strands fanned around Frodo’s face as he glanced around for his comb. There, by the wash basin. Oil, fingers, and comb together might work through the snarls before they dried in impossible knots.   
  
_He never wants any bother over him. I suppose maybe I do fuss a bit, sometimes. He’d tease me for it, or just laugh and go on. Or if he were a bit impatient, tell me with just a look. But he’d always listen, too…  
  
And that’s hard – telling the ‘too much’ from the ‘just right.’ Cause there’s service— and there’s things I like doing, that aren’t really my place, but just because they make him happy... like he makes me.  
  
Like the roses I grew, just for him. Two plants, best of both, bound together... _   
  
Sam pushed the hair back from Frodo’s brow, then let his hand rest upon his cheek, imagining subtle expressions fleeting across his face in the flickering candlelight. But there was no change, and shadows settled darkly upon silent lips and shuttered eyes.   
  
“What kind of luck is it, sir? The best, that you’re still here at all, but the worst, too. It’s tearing me up, and I have to say it, sir, even as I shouldn’t. I’m so confused I hardly can stand it. Angry, too, if truth be told. And I don’t know whether I’m angrier, like I’ve never been before, at _you_ , for risking yourself – or at me, for not being there for you, when you almost…”  
  
Sam buried his head in his hands and choked back a sob. He could see it, see how it must have started: the slender figure poised at rushing water’s edge, out of time and desperate for possibilities, and on his face, the thoughtful, considering expression he knew so well, calm even in calamity. Oh, yes, he would’ve thought it through, quick as lightning, and he must have decided there weren’t any other way, no other way…  
  
 _He wouldn’t be who he is, if he hadn’t. There it is, and it’s just what happened, like it or no._  
  
Sam took a deep breath; he’d shed tears aplenty, and not a one could wash away this sadness. But it seemed that they might have cleansed his rage, leaving him as wrung out as the washing cloths he’d used before. He wiped his face with one of the soft cloths, then laid his hand upon Frodo’s chest, and was soothed by its rise and fall, by the steady rhythm of his breathing. The room was peaceful, and quiet. Low voices, drifted from the hearth room – sounded like Mari and Ham. And distantly, through the window, the fragments of hailed goodbyes as, finally, the last of the neighbours left for their smials, reassured that the night’s excitement had ended with a reprieve, rather than tragedy.   
  
He leaned forward and spoke softly, “What I do know, Mr. Frodo, is that you couldn’t have stood by without trying, or you wouldn’t be the hobbit you are – _the hobbit I love_ – but from here on, you’ll not be doing it by yourself, not if I can help it.”   
  
_The worst is over. There’s nothing ahead but the healing._  
  
Sleep was the best thing for him, now. Later, poultices for the bruises, liniments that might ease him, tea and broth; but for now, sleep... Sam yawned and fatigue settled in every bone. He shifted; the chair was hard enough that it weren’t likely that he’d be sleeping through a watch.   
  
_The poppy draught’s right there at hand; teapot, and a cosy to keep it warm for a while. Best leave the candle lit, in case he wakes…  
  
Anything else? _  
  
There was something else. Something… What…?  
  
 _Ah, yes, that. Clutched like his life depended on it, and I promised I’d keep it safe for him_.  
  
Sam patted his vest, and withdrew a large envelope from the pocket where he had stuffed it; it looked familiar – had Frodo meant to mail it? It was unaddressed – just as well, as even Mr. Frodo’s archival ink might have run, or at least faded, with the soaking it had had. It was damp still, and crumpled from his tightly clenched fist. But it was good paper – the sturdy stuff, made to last, for important letters, binding documents and such - and the wax seal had held. Should be salvageable, with a little care. He laid it across his thigh and smoothed the creases as best he could around its contents, revealed by the clear imprint. Something round… a ring? Looked way too large for Frodo’s smallish fingers.   
  
But never mind whose it was, it mattered to his Master, and that was all that matterred to him. Sam made room for it amidst the clutter on his nightstand, securing it upright between the precious bottles of medicine.  
  
 _There, it’s not going anywhere, and it's close at hand if he wants it. Though he’s not likely to be wanting anything for a while…  
  
Maybe I can rest my eyes a bit. Even if I somehow miss hearing him stir, I’d know every creak of my old bed and the ropes. _  
  
Sam shook his head, and found a smile, his first for what felt like a very long time. Yes, he knew those creaks...  
  
 _Who ever would've have thought Mr. Frodo would lie abed here?_


	7. Frodo Awakens

  
  
Spinning…   
  
Light, wavering… through water…  
  
 _The whirlpool—_  
  
Gasping, Frodo opened his eyes.   
  
Roots, above, twining round and round… catching, holding him tight… he could not move-  
  
Light… wavering through water…? No, through _air_ , and he _could_ breathe. Roots and rough wooden beams. A ceiling curving over an unfamiliar room...  
  
 _I’m in bed, a bed…_  
  
He withdrew his arms painfully from beneath the covers confining him – and realised that something else lay heavy across him. Feeling dizzy, he raised his head to see.   
  
Golden candlelight pooled in the highlights of Sam’s hair, caressed the curves of his face. He was asleep in a straight chair, doubled over with one arm flung protectively across Frodo’s thighs, his head resting on his belly. With trembling hands – _bandage… oh… I remember_ – Frodo touched Sam’s face, lightly traced his brow and tangled his fingers in the curls, cherishing their softness – and Sam himself.   
  
His Sam…   
  
Who would have loathed the water and the chill of its bite, and yet would have braved it to help.   
  
Whose name had been on his lips even as he was tossed like a twig to sink beneath sun-glinting turbulence.   
  
Who had sought him, despite – and past - despair, and called him back from places he dared not think on now. Frodo closed his eyes. _So tired…_ If he moved more than the fingers entwined in Sam’s hair, he feared that the pain lurking deep in his flesh would take him.   
  
_Lie still…_ He was hurt, but he had survived…   
  
_So grateful…_ that he lived. That friends, family – that _Sam_ had been spared such grief. That he had come back home – or here, wherever he was – and that he could tell...   
  
_Sam—_  
  
Who was going to have a terribly stiff back if he didn’t move from that awkward position. He struggled to find his voice, and managed a hoarse whisper.  
  
“Sam?”  
  
One word and the slight shift of Frodo’s body beneath him brought Sam instantly to alertness. “Frodo! I’m here, sir!” He sat bolt upright—  
  
“ _Oh!_ ” Frodo cried out and clutched his hand reflexively to his chest.  
  
“Oh, sir, I’m so sorry!” Belatedly, Sam realised that both Frodo’s hands had been resting upon his head; he had bumped them sharply aside as he startled.   
  
_Blast it, first thing I do is bring him more hurt!_  
  
“I… did not want… you to have… a crick in your neck.” Frodo’s breaths were harsh between his words, and his voice was slurred, but he was smiling.   
  
“Mr. Frodo! Are you—”  
  
“I’m… all right. Oh, Sam, so much better than that! I did not think to be here… But I am.” He reached to take Sam’s hand, and his lips tightened. “Sam… I thought I would not see you again. I wanted to see you, so much. To tell you…” He choked, and coughed.  
  
“Take your time, sir. No need to rush. You’re safe, and I’m not going anywhere.”   
  
With difficulty, Sam restrained himself from flinging his arms around his master – _mind the bruises, give him room_ – and instead, turned his hand palm to palm with Frodo’s. He laid the other upon his cheek, brushing it gently with his thumb. He could not take his eyes from Frodo’s, their blue turned black in the dim light – from pain, from medicine, from the intensity of whatever he was trying so hard to say? He was not sure he could bear to hear it, but could not bear to miss a word.   
  
“I wanted… I hadn’t told you— and then, in The Water—”  
  
Sam shook his head, and in his distress he interrupted his master. “Mr. Frodo, no need to think on that – you’re safe now! Just put it out of your mind and rest—”   
  
“No, Sam. I thought- I _feared_ that I… that I would not… live… to tell you. But I did, and I will.” Frodo reached up to wipe away Sam’s tears. “I wanted… I want to tell you, Sam. You mean so much, so very much to me—” He struggled to raise himself upon his elbow, but winced and fell back to the pillow with a groan.   
  
“Oh, me dear—” Sam slipped to his knees beside the bed. “There, sir, take your time, catch your breath.” A rush of joy made his voice tremble; his love mingled with raw need, to surge in his belly. But hope could not overcome common sense, and he found words that were sure and strong - and true no matter what Frodo might have meant, or might even have said, if pain had not taken his voice.  
  
“I’ve always known – you _did_ tell me, in so many ways. Don’t you know how much – _I love you!_ – you mean to me, sir?” Sam’s words were muffled as he pressed his lips to Frodo’s palm, clasping it as fiercely as he dared, and his heart ached with tenderness. “You came back to me, you came back…”   
  
“Sam…” Heedless of his hurts, Frodo reached up, flung his arms around Sam, and drew him close. He held him tightly, as if he would pull him inside himself; his lips brushed the curve of Sam’s ear, down to the hollow of his throat and the pulse pounding there—  
  
And with only a few moments more of such solace, they might have moved to find each other’s lips and the kiss that relief would have compelled, a kiss that would have revealed feelings far deeper than the friendship they acknowledged so readily. Only a few moments… and the inevitable would have made irrefutable the understanding that something _more_ was rising— had arisen…  
  
But there were forces that could keep them apart, and some that _never_ would have them bound more closely together.   
  
Frodo gasped, for every bone ached and pain could no longer be ignored, despite Sam’s gentleness and an embrace he desired.  
  
“Oh, sir, I’ve hurt you!” Sam let him loose and in his concern, knocked against the nightstand, and just barely caught the candle and the basket as they teetered; something flew spinning as of its own volition off the edge, and fell heavily to the floor. Sam turned away, to see that it was only the envelope – _not the medicine, thank goodness_ – and scooped it up to replace it. But the moment was broken.  
  
“No, Sam, you’ve never hurt me, ever—” Frodo sighed, “Though The Water may have, more than I realised. But now that I think of it…” He frowned, and squirmed a bit. “I am afraid that I may need your help… so that… erm…”   
  
“Aye. Of course, sir.” Everything about this day had turned out differently from anything Sam could have expected; he was not sure _what_ might have happened if they had held each other, only a little longer, though he would have liked very much to find out. But the practical needs of the body were forces to be reckoned with just as much as storms and rivers, and anyway, the distraction might help them move past this _something_ that could well overwhelm him, at a time when what Frodo _needed_ most was gentle care and rest.   
  
“Here, sir, let me...” Sam pulled the covers back and slipped an arm around Frodo’s shoulders, lifting and supporting him as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. And then he was sitting, panting from the effort, and looking up insistently.   
  
“I can stand… if you would…”   
  
“Aye, sir.” Sam bent down and quickly brought forth his chamber pot from beneath the bed, with a momentary thankfulness for his own tidy habits that had left it fresh, for Mari would surely have checked too, as she made up the room – _what things to be thinking on, Samwise!_ Too tired, that was why – and far too much swirling in his head to see any of it clearly.  
  
Frodo slid from the bed to his feet and braced himself with his uninjured hand upon Sam’s shoulder; his breathing came fast and shallow.   
  
“Sam… would you…?” His skin blanched alarmingly; he swayed and Sam caught him with one arm around his waist, steadying him as he regained his balance.  
  
“Aye, sir, let me…” Sam stooped to gather the nightshirt up to Frodo’s waist; he held him securely as his need was met. He knew enough about blows inflicted to chest and belly to think to look – _no blood, thank the stars_ \- and then lifted him back into bed as smoothly as he could. He extricated the pillow from where it had become bunched, and propped it behind him so that he might sit upright.   
  
Frodo sank back, sighing. “Thank you, Sam. That was far worse an ordeal than it should have been.”   
  
“It were at that, sir. But you’ll feel stronger before you know it, and it ain’t only me saying that, sir. So does my Gaffer. Nothing broken, seems, though you’ll likely need to rest a while. And this – it’s my Gaffer’s poppy draught that he swears by when the damp brings on his rheumatism. It should help.”  
  
“That would be good…” Frodo set his teeth against the pain, closed his eyes, and laid his head back against the headboard.   
  
*****


	8. A Most Reasonable Request

  
  
_I wish I’d remembered this, first thing._  
  
Sam’s hands shook as he uncorked the vial; he set the cork carefully upon the table. He clenched and flexed his fingers, willing them to the steadiness needed to measure the right amount into a spoon. Too little, and it would hardly touch hurts like these; too much, and… well, he’d be sure there weren’t too much.  
  
“Sam, the lad… is he all right?”   
  
“That he is, because of you, sir. Do you remember?” Sam looked over his shoulder. Frodo was frowning but did not open his eyes.  
  
“Yes. Most of it… though not so much about afterwards.” Had it only been hours since— the memories blurred and swirled and threatened to overwhelm him. Think on them, later. He was safe now, and here… and where _was_ here? He opened his eyes and glanced wearily around the room.   
  
The railed back of Sam’s hard chair was silhouetted against a window, beyond which he could see shrubs, a gate, a road - all silvered by moonlight. Across the small room, a washstand with a basin and a jug, pegs on the wall from which hung a coat, a cap… perhaps a nightshirt, in the shadows?  
  
Closer, he could see Sam’s sturdy back as he bent to the candle to prepare the medicine; nearby, a chest whose deeply carved vines seemed to have grown across the wood. Shelves above it, with carving implements and a brown earthenware jug holding long-handled paintbrushes, and the edge of what looked like a paint box. And books, many of which he recognised even in the dim light: one, a favourite that he had translated for Sam, and there, Sam’s very first primer, filled with a childish scrawl beneath his own careful, flowing example.   
  
He could see the pages as clearly as if they were set before him, and remember…  
  
Sam’s unabashed enthusiasm for the old tales, his tenacity as he tried more and more difficult texts, and his voice: a child’s lilt, a cracked teen’s, and now a mellow tenor, singing songs he’d made, humming as he tended his beloved garden… for always had it been _his_ …   
  
Frodo drifted for a while in olden days, when the first layer of love had been laid down. He had been a lonely tween, not so old that he must see the gardener’s lad merely as a child, but instead as playmate, student, and even then, as a trusted friend. But while the memories were soothing, he was hurting more and more, and he emerged from the past to find that a moan had risen in his throat. No. Sam did not need more worry. He tried to hide it with casual speech.  
  
“This is your room, isn’t it?” he asked.  
  
“Aye, sir.” Sam replied, turning to him, holding the spoonful of medicine, and his frown made it clear that he had not mistaken the sound. “Here we go, sir… drink this. My Gaffer says it works fast. Might make you a bit woozy.”  
  
“ _Woozy_ would be quite all right, compared to feeling like this.” Frodo gulped the bitter draught, grimacing, then met Sam’s concerned gaze. “That tasted dreadful.” He smiled at Sam’s chagrined expression and added, “Not at all like the usual fare I expect from you.”  
  
“I should hope not! My Gaffer usually has a spoonful of honey after. Oh! Are you hungry, sir?”  
  
“No!” Frodo’s expression showed how very little the idea of food appealed. “But thank you, Sam.”   
  
“You’re welcome, sir. But you should drink something.” Sam poured a mug of hot tea; Mari must have replaced what had grown cold while he slept.  
  
“Yes, thank you.” Frodo held the mug with both hands cupped around its warmth and sipped slowly.   
  
Sam sat back on the chair and looked at him with concern. “You’re not having any trouble breathing, are you, sir?”   
  
“Not breathing, no. Although my chest does feel as though I have been run over by a cart.” Frodo examined the large bandage on his hand. “You did this, didn’t you? It looks like your work, thorough…”  
  
 _Well, there’s a surprise; he don’t mind the extra…_ “Yes, sir. And Marigold stitched up your hand, neat as you please. It ought to heal good as new, and the rest of you, too. But my Gaffer says you’re likely going to – _be laid up a good while_ – want to take it easy.”   
  
_And hurting so bad that a poppy haze may be the only thing for it._ Sam could see its effects as Frodo’s frown eased and his eyelids drifted closed.  
  
“Mr. Frodo? How did you know it was my room, sir?” Sam cast his voice low enough that it would not wake him if he had drifted into sleep, and didn't need the distraction from his pain, but Frodo opened his eyes and smiled.   
  
“Well, your coat is hanging over there, and there is no clutter anywhere, other than what is here for me… and I can see outside in the moonlight… so I can tell which window…” Frodo’s speech began to slur as the draught flooded his body. “Sam, I think I had better lie down… dizzy…”   
  
And Sam was immediately at his side, lifting him, lowering him in the bed. He supported him with one arm as he fluffed the pillow, then laid him back upon it.  
  
“Sleep now, me dear. Just sleep.”  
  
“Sam… Lie down here, beside me.”  
  
Sam froze.   
  
Frodo set his unhurt hand lightly upon Sam’s arm. His brow furrowed with the effort of concentration. He spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully, in his most reasonable tone.  
  
“Sam. You already have slept too long in that hard chair, on my behalf. And even have given me your own bed. _You_ must rest, too.” He patted the bed and shifted awkwardly towards the wall. “See? There is plenty of room…”   
  
Frodo’s voice faded, and his eyes drifted closed. It seemed that the matter might be resolved without the need to think more on the wisdom or the propriety of lying so close beside his master in the very bed in which he’d had those dreams. And surely that was for the best, though Sam’s arms ached to embrace Frodo and comfort him.   
  
He sighed and reached to pull the covers up, but Frodo was awake, watching him, and though his eyes were sleepy and unfocused, a smile played at his lips.  
  
“Sam. I shall just have to rise and go home to my own bed, if you refuse.” He was clearly trying to look stern, and actually managed a fair, if brief, approximation before his lips twitched with amusement.   
  
“I don’t reckon that even you would be doing that tonight, sir.” Sam shook his head, smiling. _But stubborn as you are, you just might find a way, though you’d have to do it in the next minute or two, before you’re sound asleep._  
  
“Perhaps not… but I do insist.”” Frodo’s next words cast the situation in a far different light. “And… I do feel… rather cold...”   
  
Sam realised, to his alarm, that Frodo was actually trembling. And there was a quiver now at the corner of his smile, and uncertainty in his eyes, and Sam knew that finally his strong master had reached the end of his rope.  
  
 _Why are you dithering? He’s cold, he asked – and those dreams of yours are in the way of what’s best for him. You love him? Set fool notions aside and be by his side like he needs._  
  
“That does it. We can’t have that! Thank you, sir. That chair _is_ a mite uncomfortable.”   
  
Sam lifted the covers; the bed sagged beneath his weight and the ropes creaked. Frodo tipped towards him, and Sam slid gingerly alongside, trying not to rock the bed or jar him, too shy to look to Frodo’s face and see what might be revealed in those eyes, and too overwrought to risk seeing only concern and a chill.  
  
Lie still, next to him? Or – hold him? Frodo seemed to be waiting; he probably hurt too much to move.   
  
“Here, sir, begging your pardon, but if you don’t mind?”  
  
Frodo sighed and nodded; his eyes fluttered closed as Sam edged closer to him.   
  
Sam rolled onto his side, bracing himself on his arm, and tucked the eiderdown up to Frodo’s eartips; the jewel colours emphasised his pallour, though his cheeks were sun blushed from the long walk he’d taken… before. Sam took a deep breath and laid his hand upon his brow, smoothing back curls that gleamed russet in the candlelight. His skin felt cool, but not dangerously so, and his shivering subsided as the eiderdown and Sam’s healthy body warmed him.  
  
“Better, sir?”  
  
“Mmm… yes…” Frodo’s breathing had slowed and his eyes remained closed.   
  
“Just let yourself nod off, sir. I’ll be here, right by your side, except for taking a few moments to wash up. You can trust your Sam.” He whispered as he stroked Frodo’s hair.  
  
“Sam… I _do_ trust you…” Frodo’s voice faded and his lips parted around a faint, poppy-induced snore, and he did not stir when Sam eased himself regretfully out of the bed.   
  
*****


	9. An Argument Suppressed

  
  
Sam slipped back into his bedroom, its warmth welcome after the quick visit to the privy, and closed the door upon the quiet conversation winding down at the trestle table. There was plenty more he wanted to hear, and some he wanted to say, but now wasn’t the time.  
  
Marigold had dozed off, curled in the chair by the hearth, as well she should after all she and Ham had done: the table wiped down; the tub put away; wet clothes and blankets and towels bundled neatly for the morning’s laundry. And Mr. Frodo’s shirt, washed already, and hung near the fireplace to dry. Now why hadn’t she waited…? Of course. It was hard enough to remove mud stain, let alone blood dried and set into the weave.  
  
Ham and their Gaffer nursed pipes and toddies beneath a cloud of smoke, and on the table between them was a platter with ham sandwiches and fat dill pickles. Ham had offered to share his weed if he’d sit, but Gaffer had nodded in agreement when he insisted that he couldn’t linger, and he’d best return to his watch. He’d stayed only long enough to decide which of Mr. Frodo’s kin (not the local ones, to anyone’s mind) should be sent for, and that it could wait till first thing in the morning. But as he left, his Gaffer called a reminder.   
  
“Now, son, you be sure to fetch me if Mr. Frodo has any… difficulties in the night.”  
  
Difficulties? What more difficulties could he have? His worry must have shown, for his Gaffer added gruffly, “No need to fret. Likely he’ll just sleep, especially after the poppy. But no more, mind you. He ain’t used to it, and we don’t want him to be.”  
  
That hadn’t done much to set his mind at ease. His own rare, and minor, injuries had felt worse the day after as they started healing, but he’d never suffered anything like these…  
  
To Sam’s relief, Frodo hadn’t so much as moved while he’d been gone, and looked to be resting as easy as when he’d left him. He stretched; aye, he was sore enough from being tired, let alone sleeping in the chair. Wearily he plodded to his washstand and poured water from the jug into his tooth mug and the basin. His mouth was dry; he swallowed hard. Had he smelled as fusty as he tasted? He gulped down a full mug, then another, and scrubbed teeth and tongue with both his brush and the frayed cinnamon stick. Turning his back to the bed, he shed his vest and braces quickly, pulled his shirt from his waistband – a quick sniff at the fabric, and himself, made him shed it and scrub his chest and the fur beneath his arms.  
  
He loosened the fastenings on his breeches and small clothes, but he could not bring himself to undress further, and instead brushed up the nap on his pants and pulled on his best shirt – fresh and clean, and softer to the touch than the work shirt. Just the idea of stripping bare, donning his nightshirt, and then lifting the covers to climb into bed as usual, was too much to think on, let alone actually to do. There weren’t nothing usual about all this, except his determination to do the best he could by his master. And that meant keeping a promise.  
  
A sound, and he whirled around. Yes, it had been a moan, but the grimace was relaxing again into peace. Sam’s heart turned over.  
  
 _Aye, he’s hurting. This ain’t the time for any of those thoughts creeping in. Not that there ever will be._  
  
But he was young and healthy and male – and about to lie with the hobbit he loved most in all the Shire, and even if the reason for it weren’t anything like those in his dreams, it was still his Mr. Frodo. Secret fire flared in his belly as he felt again an embrace that had flanned slow glowing embers to a sudden flame – until very different needs had doused it. A fire extinguished… or merely banked?   
  
_Stop it, Samwise Gamgee. Enough._  
  
He didn’t have any business thinking these things. Mr. Frodo were trusting him, and really hadn’t given him the slightest reason to think he thought of him as more than a beloved friend.   
  
_But what he said… and his eyes… and he reached up to hug me…_  
  
Sam shooed away the traitorous little hope, and splashed at his washbasin, welcoming the shock of cold water upon his face and neck. Brusquely he unbuttoned his shirt part way and held the washing cloth against the pulse beating hot and fast in his throat. With his other hand, he gripped the edge of the washstand to steady himself as two nights of the worst fear he’d ever known caught up with him. Gradually he collected his thoughts and caught his breath, but other parts of him remained firmly out of his control. He glanced to make sure that Frodo slumbered, then pushed aside his breeches and resolutely applied the cold cloth, twice and again, to quell any further argument, ignoring the temptation to provide a few vigorous strokes that would otherwise resolve it – and a good sight faster, too.  
  
But while that might have helped him find release from solitary dreams, there were no way it could be right with Frodo only a few feet away. Sternly, he pulled together his breeches and fastened them loosely enough for comfort, thoroughly enough for decency.  
  
Ever so carefully, Sam crawled into bed. He stretched out flat on his back and pulled the covers over them both, trying valiantly to ignore the thrill of lying next to his beloved master. He wasn’t cold now; heat radiated from his body across the inches that separated them. Dare he move? He was of two minds, three – more indecisions than he could count.   
  
But Frodo shifted, groaning with sedated pain, and draped one arm across Sam’s chest. He sighed and snuggled and laid his head upon Sam’s shoulder, and Sam’s tension melted away as he wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close. It was as easy as breathing, as natural as if he’d slept there every night. There wasn’t anything difficult at all; this was his Mr. Frodo and he loved him, and it was that simple.  
  
Sam pressed his face into Frodo’s hair. The salve that had helped untangle it had left it sleekly coiled. Beneath that scent was something more complicated: basil and thyme from the soap; river water and loam. Frodo himself, his faint musk stronger for all the strain, and as familiar as Sam’s own hand threading through the heavy locks. And mingled with it all, the metallic tang of his blood, primal and unsettling.   
  
Sam could not help but kiss the dark curls, for comfort and longing and love. He took a deep breath, drawing into himself all of Frodo that he could. Overwhelmed by the knowledge of what he held in his arms, in his own bed, he relinquished himself to exhaustion and closed his eyes.   
  
But his tumbling thoughts would not be still, and Sam did not believe that he would sleep.  
  
 _Bless him._  
  
He’s strong. He’ll heal. All will be well...  
  
Who would’ve thought I’d hold him in my arms tonight? Slim as a willow wand and just round enough, a good handful of hobbit, with a spirit as strong as oak.   
  
Was it all right to kiss his hair, without so much as a ‘by your leave’? It were just a tiny kiss, not much more than friendly. And not like it was on his lips.   
  
Such sweet lips… I’d kiss the corners, if I could… his smile… his throat, where the pulse beats fast.  
  
Kiss every part of him, twice, and again for luck, all the way down to fine silky skin, standing proud and all a’quiver…  
  
And I’d be ready, too, however he’d want me. Both of us trembling…   
  
‘Come to me, my Sam.’   
  
His voice, so soft, and his lips, too…  
  
He takes me in hand… And then…  
  
We are joined… together…   
  
And I fall… forever…   
  
In love.   
  
*****


	10. Interlude ~ Sam's Dream

  
  
Sam opened his eyes to find his own bedroom, dark except for—  
  
Moonlight, falling silver pale upon fair skin, captured by the tumbled black curls shadowing Frodo’s eyes, their blue as dark as midnight skies, and his teeth as white as starlight beneath full lips… as he leaned to kiss…  
  
 _Ahhh…_  
  
Sam could taste something so sweet that it had to be Frodo himself and he opened his mouth to him, wanting to know all of him, if only by this…   
  
Yet there was more, and overwhelmingly much… for here and now, in his very own bed, he held in his arms his sleek and naked love, warm against his own bare flesh. His skin was as smooth as ever Sam had dreamed, and his body was truly as lithe— and then, with a kiss, he pulled away from their embrace, laughing with sheer delight, and Sam gasped and didn’t know if he’d ever breathe again.  
  
 _Come back, me dear!  
  
Like this, my love? _  
  
With fluid grace, Frodo moved to cover him, settling warm weight astride – _oh, yes… there!_ \- and laced his fingers with Sam’s to touch together that which had grown strong between them. He groaned as Sam encircled them both, until such touch was unbearable and Frodo fell again into his arms, so eager that Sam must meet hardness with even firmer caress, until…   
  
_My love…_  
  
Sam shuddered as his Frodo cried out, thrusting tongue and heat and pulsing desire to Sam’s own arching need…   
  
And then they were one, awash with seed and tears, falling together into dreams…  
  
This could not be a dream.   
  
Too vivid, so real…   
  
Sam opened his eyes: candlelight, and his master asleep by his side. Thirst – that must have been what called him from sweet dreams. Or perhaps a different need… He reached to the heavy ache in his groin and closed his eyes - _if only… oh, me dear_ \- as the remnants of something lovely faded.   
  
He lay still, trying to remember; his chest felt tight, his heart thumped hard and fast, and a pulse jumped feverishly in straining flesh. After a moment’s deliberation, he sighed and slipped carefully from the bed. The air was chill and the floorboards cold. The hearth fire that had warmed the wall next to the bed had been banked for the night, but it would not be long till Ham stoked it for the morning baking. He glanced back; the eiderdown covered Frodo snugly and he should rest peacefully as Sam sought distraction.  
  
 _Keep your mind on what you can do, not what you can’t have._  
  
He poured a mug of water and gulped it down, then braced his hands upon the wash stand and leaned forward, rolling his shoulders as he tried to clear his head. But it seemed like that wasn’t going to happen, despite listing every garden task he’d need to attend tomorrow: those resulting from the storm, not to mention the usual spring chores and plantings that all this had interrupted, not that this wasn’t more important-   
  
Thank the stars, all _would_ be well again, and Mr. Frodo would be smiling… smiling like he’d been… in his dream…   
  
Sam sighed and looked out the window. Clouds scudded over the moon, and a wan light stole colour from the familiar scene; a chill wind had risen, rattling at the panes and rippling through the daffodils and tulips, their tightly furled buds nodding a promise to bloom. That, at least, would be fulfilled… Sam shivered and wished that he had pulled his robe around his nakedness. But he had left it, and his heart, lying upon the bed.  
  
 _What else…?_  
  
Hard to tell what the morrow would bring, but caring for a hobbit laid up like this would take the efforts of them all. There were surely things that he would need to fetch from Bag End for Mr. Frodo’s comfort, such as his pipe and the pouch of his favourite weed, so they would be at hand as soon as he wanted them, though that wasn’t likely to be right away, anyway. And, of course, a book or two, maybe the one he’d been reading just last night – no, that was the night before, now…   
  
_Yes, this was helping… some._  
  
He’d be wanting his personal things, too, like his boar bristle brush, to keep the shine on his hair while he was sick abed, and the matching carved comb, its teeth wider than Sam’s comb, and less likely to tear the soft tresses, and the smaller one, too, for his feet. Toothbrush, and the mint and baking soda powder he liked; more of the basil and thyme soap, and maybe the sweet woodruff lotion? It would be a good change from the liniment that smelled so medicinal, though he would need help rubbing it on…  
  
 _No, don’t think on that._   
  
Clothes? Sam shook his head. It would be a while before he’d be up and about, and then soft and comfortable things would be best, though there might be some visitors for whom he’d want to dress. Would the Sackville-Bagginses call? Not here, if he had any say about it, for he’d not have them sneering at his Mr. Frodo while he weren’t quite up to handling them with his usual deftness. And it would be at least a day or few before his Brandybuck kin could make the trip, no matter how fast they sent word in the morning. For anyone else, that wine-red dressing gown would be all the formality he’d need… and likely more than he could manage.  
  
What he needed more were his own nightshirts, rather than Sam’s old blue hand-me-down, pretty though it was with his eyes.   
  
_Such lovely eyes, such love in his eyes…_   
  
Sam knew right where he kept the best ones, folded neatly on the top shelf of the wardrobe. Pure white, with tiny shell buttons, pin tucks or embroidery, their fabric so fine it was almost sheer. But the ones Frodo _liked_ best were on the shelf below: creamy linen ticked with a thin blue stripe, washed and worn to softness – and almost to sheerness, too, from what Sam had seen when he’d found Frodo pottering about in the kitchen after a late night.   
  
_All rumpled, and always a little grumpy till after his first pot of tea; one cheek reddened by the pillow, with a little indent pressed by the lace. Absentmindedly running his hands through the tousle, pushing the hair from his eyes – and then he yawns, and stretches, arching graceful with the morning sun behind him, his arms flung back and fabric stretched sheer over the peaks of his nipples, the curve of his belly, and the dark patch between his legs…_  
  
“Oh, Frodo!” Sam buried his cry into his arm.  
  
“Sam?” Warm arms slipped around his waist. “Are you all right?”  
  
Sam turned within a strong embrace to meet midnight eyes, creased with concern, and a loving smile.  
  
“I was just… I just…” What _was_ he doing? What had he been thinking? He wiped his hand across his brow, and took a deep breath. “I awakened… a dream. It’s gone, now.”   
  
“Come back to bed – you're cold.” Frodo hugged him close and made a satisfied little sound as their naked bodies pressed together; he moved to take Sam in hand. “And _this_ requires my full attention.”  
  
“Aye,” Sam growled. “That it does. I want your… attention.” He cupped one hand around Frodo’s bare flank, and traced his lips with the other. “I want _you_ , me dear.”  
  
“You have me, my love. Always.” Frodo took Sam’s hand and pulled him down upon the bed, a wide expanse of tumbled, jewel-toned eiderdown that would warmly bless their love, and he whispered, “Come, my Sam… _have_ me... now…”  
  
*****


	11. Pain and Poppy

  
  
  
_**Baggins…**_  
  
A voice…  
  
 _ **…Baggins…**_  
  
His name, and other words, faint, as from a distant conversation only half heard.  
  
 _ **…Baggins…**_  
  
Who was calling him? Frodo’s eyelids fluttered. Darkness… soft and safe, and warmth all around.   
  
_Never mind… sleep..._   
  
But pain and curiousity pushed him further towards consciousness and he opened his eyes, feeling that he had missed something, had neglected something, and must look for _something_ that he had lost or never had…  
  
 _Sam’s room… this is Sam’s room…_  
  
Safe. Warm. He blinked and the room tipped slowly back and forth, as though it were rocked upon the waves…   
  
_The Water…_  
  
But gentle as a summer’s day… and he was _safe_ … in Sam’s room, in his very bed. And Sam must be here, too, right here… Ah, yes, _here_ was his Sam. Here, snugged close, encircling him within one arm’s embrace. Frodo’s face was pressed upon an edge of soft fabric, his nose was buried in the fur on Sam’s broad chest. He took a deep breath: pipe smoke and soap… and… well, just Sam, and trying to sort the rest of the rich scents made his head, and everything else, hurt even more. He lay very still, listening to the steady rhythm of their hearts, feeling Sam’s pulse through the rumpled shirt beneath his cheek, riding the easy rise and fall of each breath.  
  
 _At least he sleeps. He needs it so much…_   
  
But why did he need it so? Surely Sam hadn’t been hurt? Not Sam, please not his dearest… friend. Wisps of memories dissipated before he could see them clearly, but in none of them did Sam seem to suffer any harm. He _had_ been worried – gold-flecked eyes narrowed and brow creased in a frown – but it was Frodo who had been hurt, though he could not recall quite how. But thank the stars, Sam was only tired, after caring for him so tenderly… so… _lovingly_ …  
  
As he would tend any plant or creature ever in his care, even as a lad, and would do no less for a one of them.  
  
Frodo sighed and laid his unhurt hand to Sam’s cheek, then upon his shoulder, squeezing it gently.   
  
_Let him rest, peaceful and blessed…_  
  
Impressions swirled before his eyes: Sam… his laugh, freely given; his hands, rough and sure, gentle upon twining vine, strong upon oak-handled tools; his voice soft, and his words thoughtful… the curve of muscle and curl and a slow burning smile…   
  
Without lifting his head from Sam’s chest, Frodo tried to focus his vision and his thoughts. His own hand lay right before his eyes; he looked curiously at the bandage swaddling all but his fingertips; surely such painful throbbing should show? But the familiar fingers did not so much as twitch, and it took deliberate effort to wiggle them.   
  
Without lifting his head from the warmth of Sam’s chest, Frodo looked past his own hand; the room was quiet and dim and cool. Moonlight and the long shadows outside the window suggested that dawn would not be long in coming. Shadows filled the room, too, but a swathe of pale light washed across the nightstand, silhouetting clutter that filtered the fall of dark and light upon his face, Sam’s chest, and his own bandaged hand resting over Sam’s heart. The candle had melted, its wick extinguished in a glossy puddle of wax.  
  
 _Might I have heard it guttering, sputtering out?_  
  
That must have been what had disturbed his sleep. No name had been called, and there was no one to call it. He snuggled closer to Sam – _don’t wake him!_ – and found that even such a small movement was… well, not pleasant. He wished that he had not awakened, despite the comfort of lying quietly in Sam’s embrace, for the pain was deepening. Before long, it might well require him to rouse Sam and to ask for his help yet again. And that would be unconscionable, as tired as he was. He had asked Sam to lie with him, because Sam needed to rest.   
  
_And because I needed Sam…_  
  
And here they were, Sam slumbering still, and he – not, and not likely to, either. Maybe the pain would not be so bad. Surely he could manage a little more discomfort? Perhaps if he shifted a bit, tried to find a better position? He straightened his legs carefully; the bed ropes creaked as the ticked mattress – thin feathered warmth over the firmness of straw – sagged beneath his weight. He tipped more heavily onto Sam’s body with a soft grunt of pain. And now the nightshirt had become twisted around his legs. Suppressing a groan, he lifted himself enough to untangle it, and tried to pull free the bunch under his hip. The rough sheets, cool where neither his nor Sam’s body had warmed them, were a welcome distraction to bared skin.   
  
How dizzy would he be if he rose, to see if pacing would help? The wall bound him on one side, and Sam on the other, a sturdy bulwark between him and the room. He would have to clamber over Sam, and as awkward as that would be, he would surely wake him. And he probably could not walk, anyway, which was a more alarming thought than he cared to dwell on. But if he could help it, he would not have Sam disturbed, and he looked blearily to the shadows for inspiration. The slow spinning of the room was a mildly pleasant diversion, and he watched the shadows swirl… shadow, light, shadow… light upon the nightstand, a shadow from some bit of clutter falling upon his face—  
  
 _Perhaps I could have more of the Gaffer’s cordial?_  
  
Sam had prepared it right here, hadn’t he? Yes. He did remember that; remembered watching his sturdy back and the shaking hands that he had tried to conceal. Frodo gritted his teeth, and arranged his bandaged hand so that it would not be bumped as he braced himself upon his elbow to look. Yes, there it was – a small corked vial set upon the near edge. And it was within reach, if only…  
  
It was a simple thing, made unreasonably difficult by pain, to arrange his bandaged hand and arm to brace him as he raised and reached across Sam with his unhurt – well, if one did not count shoulder and ribs - arm. Panting with the effort, Frodo would have collapsed, but for the thought that he would fall right atop Sam, and there was very little chance of Sam sleeping through _that_. Sam’s arm slipped from his waist and fell to the bed, and for a moment, Frodo regretted his move, regretted that he was no longer within the circle of Sam’s gentle embrace. But he needed that vial. He willed quivering muscles to cooperate, and he frowned, squinting to focus his blurred vision upon his prize...   
  
There, almost he had it… But _there_ , next to it—  
  
Frodo’s eyes fixed, and focused, upon a pale envelope.  
  
*****


	12. The Wrong Side of a Dream

  
_That! Not lost!_  
  
How had he forgotten? Such a comfort, this reminder of Bilbo – _gone, long gone_ – and of all that Bilbo meant to him, had done for him, had left to him… He must have it, hold it, keep it safe. Such a comfort in the night, now, as he hurt so much, and had been so afraid…   
  
_Spinning… light, wavering… lost…_  
  
So very afraid…   
  
Must have, hold...  
  
Need compelled new purpose to Frodo’s muddled thoughts. Shadows spun around him as he rose up, ignoring the fierce protests from his body, and stretched— _just a little more_ —  
  
Stabbing, stinging pain shot from his hurt hand to his shoulder, but— he _had_ it, pincered between the tips of two fingers, and if he closed the other two around the vial… Yes, he had the poppy, too!   
  
Frodo fell back gracelessly and swiped at the cold sweat on his brow with his shirtsleeve. He lay very still where he had dropped, panting, and clutched the stiff envelope and the vial to his breast. The effort had cost him dearly, but he had done it, and though Sam had stirred, he still slept, solid as a rock, though not so silent. He felt a surge of pride that he had managed it by himself.  
  
 _Sam would never have minded waking to help me._   
  
But he held in his hands all the comfort that he could want, and surely he _needed_ comfort more now than ever. He peered at the envelope but the swathe of moonlight did not illuminate it; he laid it upon his chest and smoothed his fingertips over the damp paper. Yes, Bilbo’s ring was still there, not lost, not lost at all, and found at just the right time to keep him from having to ask—  
  
 _Sam would want me to ask, would not want me to bear this alone._  
  
But he _was_ alone, wasn’t he?   
  
Sam had not awakened when he needed him, even though it seemed that his sleep had become more restless: a soft cry, his breathing faster, the arm that had held him flung now overhead. That was for the good, for Sam’s good. He certainly could take care of himself, especially now that he actually had what he needed in hand.   
  
The poppy… how much? , He knew that soporifics must be used sparingly; even now he felt its dream-like effect, though its relief had faded. Try to remember… Sam had taken such care in preparing it. He had been lying against a soft pillow, his eyes closed, and when he had opened them, he had looked into Sam’s dear face… and swallowed the bitter draught with complete trust.   
  
He had not seen or thought to look for the measuring spoon. Surely he could guess how much? A good swig, maybe two? Enough that he might lose himself in dreams and no longer have to endure this confusion and pain— for why must he do so, with relief so readily available? He closed his hand around both vial and envelope – _I will not let it go again!_ – and, gritting his teeth, rose again upon his elbow, taking care not to bump the bandage. He could feel the mouthful already; feel its burn sliding down his throat, flooding his blood with blissful relief.  
  
His cheek brushed against the envelope as he set his teeth to the cork, pulled it out with a small popping sound, spat it to his side. Such a tiny bottle it was, and scarcely enough left in it to sooth a sprain, let alone his battered bones and ragged hand… Oh, he hurt… and was so very tired, and so alone… He closed his eyes to the moonlight, and heard only the pounding of his own pulse. With a sigh, he touched his tongue to the vial’s cold lip, an edge so bitter that it brought tears to his eyes.   
  
_My Gaffer takes it with honey…_  
  
He heard himself gasp— but he needed it now, wanted it, could already feel the heat of this tiny taste begin to melt away his pain. He slipped his tongue to probe within—  
  
 ** _Take it…_**   
  
And tipped the vial to drink—  
  
Sam moaned, a little sound that pierced Frodo to his core. He startled, and for a moment the room spun around as though he again were in The Water, and precious drops oozed thickly from the vial.   
  
_Spilled, gone… all is lost…_  
  
He reached for Sam’s sturdy body by his side, and held himself shakily upon one elbow as he looked down to see Sam’s face for the first time since he had awakened. Here was blessed comfort, and why had he not sought this, instead?  
  
 _Sam…_  
  
He slept, as in a dream – was it his or Frodo’s own? Wheat coloured curls, washed flaxen by the pale moonlight that streaked his face and chest, purpled shadows beneath his lashes, brows quirked and furrowed as though with strong emotion. His lips – _so soft_ – were parted, and they moved, as though he might speak.   
  
_What would he say, here, in the night, in his bed?_  
  
Frodo let poppy and paper fall from his hand, and reached to caress Sam’s face as tenderly as ever he had touched anyone in his life, and without thinking, he pressed the lightest kiss upon Sam’s parted lips.   
  
_My beloved friend… I wanted to tell…_  
  
In his sleep Sam’s lips opened to him, welcoming his tongue as though to its home, and the sweet kiss of friendship that Frodo had expected deepened suddenly, unexpectedly – _I should have known, how did I not know?_ – to something different, and more. Heat flooded through him, from the wetness of Sam’s mouth to the fullness springing hard from his loins. He wanted – oh, yes, he did _want_ this – to move to cover Sam… to grind hardness to hardness, to touch and roll and tumble and take; to mount and make this old bed frame creak, then spread his legs and welcome Sam’s touch, and him… inside...   
  
Despite pain and poppy, Frodo saw clearly what he had not known, and he realised now, for the very first time: that from longstanding love had come desire and that here by his side was all that he ever would want or need. His eyes fell closed and everything changed; he sought stability, groaned and ground himself hard to Sam—  
  
Frodo’s eyes flew open.   
  
_Oh, Sam… what are we doing? What am I doing?_   
  
Sam was asleep. Sam did not know his change of heart; had not invited any of this; had not given any sign that he felt the same – and Frodo could never take what had not been freely given.  
  
With great effort of will, Frodo pulled himself back from a kiss that was taking him heart and soul, to look down at Sam: his eyes were closed, a smile played upon his lips, but he had not awakened. Passion flickered across Sam’s face. His brows arched with need; his lips pursed as though to kiss; his shoulders and neck tensed as arousal built.   
  
_He dreams of loving - I see it now. Oh, Sam, it must be such a sweet dream! I want… to touch you, to please you…_  
  
He could not see in the darkness, and he wanted so much to see, to feel what rose so vigorously in his imagination. With difficulty, he restrained himself from reaching to encircle and encourage Sam’s pleasure, from leaning to kiss soft lips that hungered… for a dream… Frodo’s breath came faster, and he groaned with longing like none he had known before.   
  
Perhaps his touch might be welcome? Perhaps Sam, who had loved him so well and for so long, might not mind and might actually have come to love him, like _this_ , even if he were to awaken and be surprised? But what if his devoted Sam had found someone… _else_ … a different hobbit who had inspired _this_ dream?   
  
_Who raises such sweet desire in you, my Sam?_  
  
If he awakened Sam, and Sam did not desire his touch… or dreamed of another’s instead, oh, then how very – _devastating_ – awkward this all would be, with both of them so close… lying so close... so very close… and what they were about unmistakable.  
  
 _I should turn away! If I can give nothing else, I should give the privacy of a dream -- of whomever shares such pleasure._  
  
Dizzy and confused, Frodo could not tear himself away – _where would you go, silly hobbit, for you cannot even stand_ \- though the stinging sorrow was almost unbearable: Sam’s pleasure was taking him further and further from Frodo’s side.  
  
Frodo’s head hurt. _Everything_ hurt, and now his heart, too. He could not think. If he had not been so battered in body and mind, if this understanding were not so new, if only he had known, mere hours earlier— then the overwhelming love in his gentle heart would have shown him the way, and he might have dared to awaken his Sam with a kiss. But in honour, and because he was true, himself, he could not simply seize what he wanted with heart and soul.  
  
But in dreams, Sam could, and he spoke, a low growl of desire with an endearment that Frodo had believed was his own.  
  
“I want… me dear…”  
  
Frodo’s heart broke, and his breath caught as new pain mixed bitterly with the terrible certainty that he had come to know his own desire too late.   
  
_What have I lost?_  
  
And of all the hurts dealt him these past days through chance and circumstance, wound and blow, this was the worst – the one that could thwart hope in his future, and might take his very life. He laid his face to Sam’s, wrapped one arm around him and held him tight, trying desperately to ignore the ache in his loins, and to contain the grief that pierced his heart.  
  
Sam’s breath rushed ragged and his hand slipped from Frodo’s hair downward over his own chest, swirling a caress to his breast, and lower, seeking his groin. The shadows kept Frodo from seeing, even if he had dared to look, but he could feel the shaking of the bed, hear the creak of the ropes as Sam’s hand and hips built an ancient rhythm. Sam's body tensed and he cried out with the shuddering release of his dream, and Frodo’s tears fell silent and hot upon his face.   
  
_Oh, my Sam… no longer my Sam alone. I love you so. I would have loved you, just so…_  
  
His breath hitching, his chest tight, Frodo rested his forehead against Sam’s cheek for a long moment. He gave one last gentle kiss to Sam's lips, and then another to dry the tears fallen upon his face, peaceful in the aftermath of his dream. The bandage Sam had bound so well served to blot his own face, where salt stung the deep scratches on his cheek. With difficulty, he shifted back down to Sam’s side, so light-headed and overwrought that he felt sick. Shivering, he reached to pull the eiderdown over both of them and burrowed against Sam’s side. With a sigh, he laid his head again upon Sam's shoulder, and closed his eyes.  
  
 _Wherever dreams may take you, you will always be my trusted friend, my dearest companion… my beloved... gardener...  
  
_ My _Sam still, in so many ways, as long as you will be. And I_ will _be happy for all the joy you find, with whomever…_  
  
But… I still will want to tell…  
  
It comforted Frodo that in his sleep, Sam wrapped both arms around him, sighed, and pulled him closer. He let his bandaged fingertips rest lightly over the steady pulse at Sam's throat and gradually his heart slowed to match the deep rhythm of Sam’s as he drifted and found peace in his dreams.  
  
*****


	13. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illustration

[](http://photobucket.com)  
_In Dreams_  
  
 _13 The Morning After_  
  
A grey glow brightened gradually to clear light, coaxing the tight green buds beyond Sam’s window to unfurl their red and orange and yellow petals. A patch of sunlight fell upon his bed and crept across his pillow, his cheek, his eyes, awakening him slowly from sweet dreams, their details fading beyond recall, though sensual images lingered with a sense of love for his master… of being loved by him…  
  
Sam drowsed in warm memories, in the warmth of his bed, and the room… The fireplace wall by his bed was so warm; the fire must long since have been built up… Marigold had let him sleep in – when had he last done that? He must have needed it, as difficult as it was to shake off his lethargy and the bone deep fatigue making him feel so heavy. Soon… not now… but soon he must rise and hurry to be about his day. Perhaps not quite yet… a few moments more to enjoy this feeling of peace and satisfaction. He yawned and stretched languidly; warmth and weight lay draped over him–   
  
_Frodo!_  
  
He lay on his side, slumbering, his head heavy upon Sam’s breast, and his bandaged hand tucked protectively by his face. Dark curls tumbled over Sam’s chest, tickling his neck, and Frodo's breath was warm and moist upon his skin. Was this a dream? His master, sleeping sweetly in his arms, in his bed?   
  
_I could lie here forever…_  
  
Sam moved to cup one hand tenderly around Frodo’s head, tangling his fingers in the heavy locks, and his hand tingled with prickles and burrs – his entire arm had fallen asleep beneath Frodo’s weight. He shifted carefully, moving Frodo just enough to allow blood to circulate again and to lift his head, look down and see—  
  
 _Oh, my stars! Me dear!_  
  
Frodo was pale and sleek and lovely as ever he had been in any dream – and almost as naked, for the nightshirt had fallen from his shoulder and was bunched at his waist, and the covers were heaped at the foot of the bed. His skin fair glowed in dawn's light, his hurts veiled softly by shadows. He was twined around Sam as tightly as though he’d taken root and grown there, pressing so close and hard that even through his thick napped trousers, Sam could feel the strong pulse in Frodo’s arousal as he pushed, rocking a sleepy, gentle rhythm to Sam’s thigh—  
  
Sam realised several things in rapid succession:  
  
His belly was wet and sticky, his trousers and linens spread wide around bared flesh—  
  
 _Oh, my!_  
  
Frodo’s hand lay curved possessively over Sam’s belly, the tips of his fingers almost touching—  
  
And if that weren't enough to undo him completely—  
  
Footsteps were fast approaching his bedroom door, bringing with them the distinct likelihood that in the next moment Marigold would see far too much of their sweet master, and, for that matter, of Sam himself. And this last realisation required action even more immediate than what had sprung immediately to mind and body – he could not allow such an embarrassment for either his sister or his master, or the appearance of anything _more_ between Frodo and him, no matter how much he wished it were true.   
  
Quickly he kissed Frodo’s hair, a tickling cloud beneath his lips, and withdrew his arm from beneath him, eliciting a soft moan, whether of pain or protest Sam could not tell. Memories flooded back, of heartbreak and pain and poppy.  
  
 _Careful, don’t jar him—- Oh! What if he wakes?_  
  
That possibility, and the explanations it would entail, was more trouble than he could take on just now, but Frodo was so loose-limbed that he must still be drugged. Sam was still trying to slip from beneath Frodo’s twined leg when he realised that the footsteps were right at the door, and it was far too soon for all that lay exposed upon the bed. He stretched, reached desperately for the eiderdown – and in one smooth motion he pulled it free of the tangled bedcovers, flung it up, whisked it across both their bodies, calling, without much hope, “A moment, Mari, please!” – even as the door opened.  
  
At least she didn’t fling it open and burst in – he gave her credit for that much discretion – but she peeked eagerly around the edge and was already stepping through.  
  
“Sam? You’re awake!”   
  
“Shhh!" Sam put his finger to his lips with a gesture to Frodo beside him; a quick glance assured him that the eiderdown had indeed floated over him. He spoke in a raised whisper.  
  
“Don’t wake _him_.”   
  
Mari nodded in silent acknowledgment, but her brows raised and she looked at him curiously as she tiptoed to the bedside.  
  
So what _was_ he doing in bed with their master? There’d be no covering the fact of that, and even if he were good at lying, she’d see right through it, especially as worried and fretful as she’d been. So tell the truth… but maybe not quite all of it.   
  
“Mr. Frodo was hurting–”  
  
“Oh!” Mari’s hand went to her lips to cover her little gasp, and Sam hastened to allay her fear.  
  
“Shh! The poppy helped, but he was cold and asked me to rest here, rather than the chair; we both slept the better for it.”   
  
_Leastways I did, and not just from sleeping in my bed – far more from knowing he was as safe as I could keep him. Maybe it did him some good, too…_  
  
"I'm that glad you did, Sam, for both your sakes." Mari's voice was hushed enough even for Sam, but she lowered it to a whisper to add, "Dad thinks today's going to be hard. He sent me for the poppy, to refill it; says there's not enough for a good bout of damp weather rheumatics, let alone… this. Oh, Sam… the poor dear!"  
  
Marigold leaned swiftly across Sam's bulk the better to glimpse Frodo, lying partly hidden behind him, curled at his side with his hips pressing close and hard. He hoped fervently that he were well and truly covered now – that _both_ of them were, for that matter. He raised himself up on his elbow, the better to block her view, as well as to look to their master for himself. He felt the heated flush of a blush as he recalled just what Frodo's nakedness had looked like, with the blue shirt wadded at his hips and not hiding a thing of what he had only imagined, before, in dreams…   
  
But all her attention was on Frodo, and she didn't so much as look at her brother or his blushing cheeks. The soft eiderdown was indeed covering him completely, all the way to his ear tips. Sam knew Frodo was likely going to hurt and suffer terribly today, and he dreaded that for him – but he surely didn't look to be in pain now. A half smile played upon his lips, a blush bloomed over his cheeks, and tousled dark curls made him seem very young, and healthy too; with a particularly vigorous thrust to Sam's hip – Sam feigned a cough to cover the movement - he groaned, and dark lashes fluttered as though he might wake.   
  
_Oh, me dear, don't wake now!_  
  
But Frodo did not rouse, leastways not any more than was pressing hard to Sam's leg.   
  
"“My, but he _is_ a fair thing, ain’t he, Sam? It don’t bear thinking, almost losing him like that… He does look a bit flushed, though."   
  
Yes, he certainly did, and no wonder; a light sheen of perspiration glossed Frodo’s brow. All of a sudden, Mari reached across Sam to lay her hand on Frodo's forehead, whispering her concern. "I don’t think he’s feverish, just over warm—"  
  
Sam already was all too aware of the heat radiating from smooth skin and the well-muscled leg wrapped around his hips. And while Marigold’s untimely entrance had thoroughly quelled _his_ response, Frodo’s had not diminished at all. In fact, that gentle, and unimaginably wonderful, rocking had become more insistent, and his breathing was definitely faster. Mari needed to leave, and soon.  
  
"Mari, some breakfast—"  
  
"Here, Sam, we need to let him cool down, so's he don't catch his death just from being overheated—”   
  
And to Sam’s horror, Mari grasped the edge of the eiderdown and started to lift—  
  
"What are you doing? Stop! Leave the master be!” Sam’s voice was harsh in his panic.  
  
Marigold’s instant blush was quite visible in the morning light, and she dropped the fabric and stepped back from the bed so quickly that she almost tripped over the chair.  
  
“Oh, Sam, I’m so sorry! I’d never mean to take liberties with Mr. Frodo! I’ve just been so worried, and he really is the dearest hobbit, and I just wanted to help take care of him, like I’d do for you or for Ham—”  
  
“I know. But he’s _not_ your brother, he's the master, and a full grown hobbit who needs some privacy!"   
  
He took a deep breath before he said too much about _that_ ; no need for Marigold even to think just now on the many reasons why a full grown male hobbit might need privacy in bed, and in bed by Sam's side, at that.   
  
Marigold bit her lip and her hands twisted at her apron as Sam gathered his thoughts. He took pity on her look of chagrin and spoke more calmly.  
  
"Shh, it's all right, Mari. There's plenty you _can_ do to help him, and he'll be right grateful, too, knowing him. But you just leave _anything_ having to do with bed or dressing or bathing to me! And next time, make sure you knock first, and _wait_ till someone _says_ to come in!”   
  
"Aye, Sam. You're right, and I will." She managed a smile, and when Sam returned it, she spoke with her usual spirit. "But Sam, _you_ need to take some of those covers off him, even if it ain't right for me to do it." She gave Sam a quick pat on the shoulder, and with a little flounce of vindication, turned to leave, hesitating at the door to add softly, “You just let me know when he's ready for a bite to eat – you, too, Sam - or if he needs a thing. And I'll tell Dad you'll bring the poppy." She closed the door carefully and he could hear her footsteps fade as she padded away.  
  
 _Sisters! Barge in and just take over… no telling what she'd have done…_  
  
Sam heard himself grumbling out loud; he took a deep breath, and tried to collect his rattled thoughts quickly, before the distraction of what Frodo was doing – _in his sleep, it's only a dream_ – made it impossible to think.   
  
First things… move, turn away, rise, clean himself before that became an embarrassment, find the poppy – now where was it? He frowned; it was definitely not where he had left it, and that meant… Frodo must have been hurting in the night, and he had not known. Didn't Frodo understand that he could wake him, call on him for _anything_? He bit his lip and swept his hand beneath the eiderdown and across the warm, rumpled linens, feeling for the vial. Yes, there, it lay between them at his fingertip, and there, a hard edge, too – paper, that envelope? He pulled forth both – the vial was empty and its cork missing. Surely Frodo had not taken so much? Sam felt a flash of alarm – but no, he could not have drunk it and be so… _enthusiastic_ … in his dream, now. Sam held the bottle and envelope securely and reached to find the cork. But when he stretched out his hand, he found instead smooth naked skin – and he flinched back as though burned.  
  
This was not his, and likely would never be.   
  
He dropped the bottle and envelope onto the floor beside his bed and pressed his hand to his lips, watching his master.  
  
 _Who raises this sweet desire in you, me dear? Have you given your love away before I knew? Before I was brave enough to ask for it…_  
  
Frodo could call on him for anything, for _any need_ , even for _this_ … But his Frodo would never call for this, never ask for this, without love, not from anyone. Practical hobbit sense told Sam to turn away and respectfully to give his master the privacy of his dream love, but… his heart, oh, his heart pounded in his chest and a pulse throbbed in his groin, and then his master sighed.  
  
 _Should_ he reach for his heart's desire? Take Frodo in his arms, take him in hand, _take_ all of him, body and soul? Take, give, share in this sweet yearning?   
  
Or was the better part, to patiently await Frodo’s full recovery, full sensibility, and somehow, then, to make him understand?   
  
Sam shifted slightly to his side to disentangle himself from Frodo’s body– and for a moment Frodo thrust naked need hard to his own, and Sam groaned, and pushed back, and his hand curved around Frodo's bottom, pulling him close--  
  
 _No, this can't be, this is not the way this should happen between us! If ever it does, I will look into his eyes and see his love, and know he wants me…_  
  
Ever so gently Sam rolled Frodo onto his back, and his hand brushed light as a feather across heated flesh arching as hard as in his dimly remembered dreams. He sighed, longing to encircle… to see…   
  
_Aye, you’d be a fair one in love, Frodo… I hope, oh, I hope…_   
  
His hands returned safely above the covers, Sam allowed himself a tender kiss to Frodo’s brow.   
  
_Take your comfort, me dear, for soon enough, release from the poppy may be all that you can want._  
  
Frodo groaned; his breath quickened and his hand moved beneath the covers to take and stroke and relieve his yearning, and Sam knew that his own choice, whether for embrace or for privacy, must be _now_.  
  
 _You said you were in good hands, sir. Always, for whatever you need, my hands are yours – but your own must tend to this…_  
  
Sam brushed impatiently at the tears on his cheeks and sat up, fumbling at his clothes, trying to muster the courage to turn away from what he wanted with all his heart and soul to face a day that would bring pain - and blessed healing - and to meet the only needs that he could. But as he started to slip from the bed, he heard – _something_.  
  
He turned to see again his beloved's face: skin as soft as down, brows furrowed, lips parted– and his body, arching—  
  
And Sam _thought_ he heard, he might have heard, he didn’t know if truly he had, but he _believed_ that he did – the gentlest and best-loved voice in all of Middle-earth cry out his love from dreams, inspiring Sam's every hope with a sigh:   
  
_“Oh, Sam…”_  
  
 _Finis_


	14. A/N - Illustrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author illustrations, rated G-Mature

# Illustrations for 'Shire Dreams'

Tender, loving care...  
  
Title: _Tender Care_ for ['The Best of Care' from _Shire Dreams_](http://notabluemaiatoo.livejournal.com/14876.html)  
Artist: Notabluemaia  
Characters: Marigold, Frodo, Sam  
Rating: PG (a bit of blood and a needle)  
Media: Pencil, colored pencils, black and sepia ink, tinted pastel paper, computer  
  


  
[](http://photobucket.com)  
_Tender Care_  
(original scan)

 

[](http://photobucket.com)  
_Tender Care_  
(computer enhanced saturation)

 

[](http://photobucket.com)  
_Marigold Gamgee_ , detail

 

[](http://photobucket.com)  
_Frodo and Samwise_ , detail

~***~

  
  
  
  
Title: _In Dreams_ , from _Shire Dreams_  
Artist: Notabluemaia  
Characters: Frodo and Samwise  
Rating: PG-13, for partial nudity  
Media: Tinted pastel paper, pencil, ink, colored pencil, pastel, computer enhancement on one version  
  


  
[ ](http://photobucket.com)

Warm tones  
[](http://photobucket.com)

  
  
  



End file.
